Forgive me
by cassiemortmain
Summary: A season 2 missing scene fic - Sybil has to deal with a drunk Branson. Written for the S/T fandom Secret Santa fic exchange for the lovely Mimijag. Happy new year!


_Author's note_

Happy New Year, S/T fandom! Here's my contribution to our Secret Santa fic exchange on Tumblr, organised by the Yankee Countess (thank you!). This fic was written for the lovely mimijag.

My prompt was: "Sybil has to deal with a drunk Branson. For some reason, he's drunk and she needs to hide him from her family and the downstairs people."

I was given most of season 2 as a setting for this story, and I decided on a missing scene that falls between 2.03 and 2.04. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Sybil stepped through the front door and into the glimmering twilight outside. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the freshness of the world beyond Downton Abbey.

She walked away from the house, taking a well-worn path for her towards an area of woodland nearby. A place which had become her quiet refuge over the years, particularly since the War – somewhere to reflect on the day that had passed, to regather her strength for what was to come. Somewhere to be alone.

Except tonight, it seemed she wasn't alone.

As she walked more deeply into the woods, she could hear singing. A tuneful tenor voice it was, smudged with sorrow.

"Oh Ireland, Mother Ireland, you love them still the best  
The fearless brave who fighting fall upon your hapless breast,  
But never a one of all your dead more bravely fell in fray,  
Than he who marches to his fate on the bridge of Toome today."

And there was only one person who could be singing a song like that.

Branson.

 _I've got to stop him, what if Papa were to hear? He'd lose his place for certain this time._

"True to the last! True to the last, he treads the upwards way,  
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today."

She moved further between the tall trees as she followed the song to its source. Folding her arms around her body against the cool of the evening, she wished she'd thought to bring a wrap.

There was a flash of white in the darkness – could that be him?

Then, she saw him.

Branson was leaning against a tree, both hands pressed against the trunk, his head hanging down between his arms. He was without his jacket, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

A single word came to her mind as she looked at him. _Despair._

"Branson, is that you?" Sybil said, keeping her voice low.

He heard her words and turned towards her. His hair was falling over his forehead, and the look in his eyes was wild – a look she'd never seen there before.

"Lady Sybil, so it's you. Come to comfort a poor, pathetic man in his misery, have you now?"

"Branson! What's got into you?"

"The better part of a bottle of whiskey. There or thereabouts." He hiccuped slightly, and an almost empty bottle fell from his hand, landing with a clink as it hit a stone on the ground.

"What can have driven you to..."

"Roddy McCorley fought and died for Ireland in '98. I can't even do a fecking protest right. I'm sorry, milady, I..."

"Protest? What do you mean, protest?" _This must be something to do with what happened at dinnertime..._

He looked squarely at her, for the first time that evening. "I was going to... didn't you see my note?"

"No, I didn't get any note."

"It must have gone astray somehow. It was to ask you to... to forgive me for what was meant to happen at dinner tonight."

He raked his hand back through his hair, leaving it even more tousled. "I was trying to do something, anything... it wasn't much. Pretty silly, really. A mess, to be dumped on the General's head. But Carson stopped me before..."

"Sounds as if that's just as well."

"Perhaps Anna or Ethel found the note. If I hadn't written it for you, milady, perhaps I would have... and then I might be on my way to prison somewhere. Instead, I'm still here, great amadán that I am."

He bent down towards the ground, picking up the bottle he'd dropped.

"Branson, I think you've had enough. If my father or Carson were to see you like this..."

"I don't care. I don't care about anything right now."

"I want to help you get back to your cottage. Can you walk?"

"Sure and I'm fine." Branson began to walk towards her, clearly unsteady, and it was only a matter of a couple of steps before he lost his balance and fell flat on the forest floor, leaves crunching beneath him.

"Here, let me help you..." Sybil came up beside him and offered her shoulder for him to lean on as he struggled onto his haunches. "That's it, come on."

"Leave me be, milady. It's better if you just go back to the house."

"Really, Branson, I thought I gave the orders! Now come on, lean on me." She could smell the whiskey on his breath as she moved closer to him, encouraging his arm to drop onto her shoulders.

The press of his body against hers... well, it was rather surprising. He felt very solid, rather hard, and she could feel the muscles moving in his back as she slid her own arm around his waist and stood up, bringing him with her.

He staggered slightly. "Just lost my balance there for a minute." He stared down at her, and as their eyes met she was very aware of his warm skin beneath his shirt.

"Come on, we really have to go." A warm flush was racing up her cheeks as she spoke, hidden by the forgiving curtain of night.

"Yes, Lady Sybil." Suddenly docile, ready to follow her wherever she led him.

She began walking them through the darkness of the woods, which was pierced from time to time by a gleam of silver-grey moonlight through the branches.

An owl's wings flapped overhead as it swooped through the indigo sky in search of its prey. Otherwise, the only sound she could really hear was him, his laboured breathing as he walked slowly and unsteadily, the occasional mumbled word in Irish which (she guessed) it was fortunate she could not understand.

At one point he caught his foot on a loose tree root and fell to his knees, bringing her with him.

"Branson, are you all right?" She leant against him for a moment, trying to find her balance, get them on their feet again.

"I'm sorry, milady, did I hurt you?"

"No, I'm fine. Here, let me help you get up."

Sybil tightened the grip of her arm around Branson's waist, braced her shoulder against him and pushed. She'd learned to lift men, wounded and broken men, thanks to her work as a nurse. However, she realised she'd never tried to lift a man who was drunk before. It felt rather different, particularly because she was in evening dress, not her uniform. Not the quietly competent Nurse Crawley, but simply herself.

He rose awkwardly to his feet, still leaning heavily on her as he started to sing once more.

"When last this narrow street he trod, his shining pike in hand..."

 _I need to get him thinking about something else..._

"Tell me about your cousin. The one who... what was he like?" She got them moving slowly, back towards the lights of the house, heading for the edge of the woodland.

"He was my Mam's sister's son, milady. We were so close when we were boys, he was like another brother to me. When we went to school together – he was always the good one, studying hard, wanting to make something of himself." He paused, lost in a memory. "As for me – well, I was always the one in trouble! My Mam was forever saying... if only you were more like your cousin Bill..."

"Tell me, tell me more."

"I'd to leave school when I was fifteen, work, help the family. Bill too. But he kept on studying at night, he was so dedicated. In a way he inspired me to keep reading, to get interested in politics... to learn more about Ireland's history and her oppression by the British. Oppression which ended up killing him."

He swiftly dashed a tear from his eye with his free hand. She felt her own eyes fill with tears too – but hers remained unshed.

"If it weren't for him... well, today would have gone quite differently. In more ways that one." His voice was rough with emotion as well as whiskey.

"That is really sad. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for everything your family suffered."

"That's why I tried to do it. For Bill. For his life, taken from him unjustly by an English soldier. I thought if I could do something to another English soldier... well, you know how that all turned out."

He stopped walking and looked down at her. "Do you understand? Why I did what I did?"

They had reached the yard outside the garage. So close to safety, and yet the most dangerous part of their journey. _If he starts singing again, here..._

"Branson, please, come along. We're nearly there."

In a couple more minutes, they were at the front door of his cottage. "Thank you, milady. I don't deserve your kindness after this display, I'm sure."

"Not at all. I can see – well, you'll feel better in the morning."

"No, I won't. But it's good of you to say so."

Branson stopped in the doorway just as Sybil was leading him through. She found herself pressed backwards against the door frame, opposite him in the narrow space. One of his hands came up to rest on the wood behind her, just above her shoulder, and his other hand was still on her hip.

So close... her body responded to his in a way she'd never known before. Longing for... what was it?

She looked up at him. "I do understand why you were so angry. What happened to your cousin... well, it was wrong. But... will you promise me something?"

"I will do anything I can to make you happy, you know that." He was steadier now, more like himself.

"No more protests. Not like that. I know you want to do your bit for Ireland and her troubles, but that's not the way. Please..."

He sighed, looking out into the dark night. His hand dropped to her shoulder, without him realising.

"I'm sorry. I can't make you that promise, milady."

He looked back at her, expression serious. The blue depths of his eyes as they locked onto her own made her feel she had but to take half a step forward and she would drown in them.

She looked down at his mouth, and then back up at his eyes. He was still staring at her, and the look he gave her made her tremble, without knowing why.

Somehow, she was lifting her hand up to his face, feeling the scrape of his stubble, the strong line of his jaw. A tide between them, pulling her into him. His parted lips, just a breath away from hers.

A crunch of footsteps on the gravel broke the silence. Carson, on his evening rounds. _If he were to see us here..._

Sybil stepped quickly backwards into the courtyard. Branson's hands dropped as she moved, and the sudden bond between them was ruptured equally suddenly as she pulled away from him.

Her face was hot and her breath was racing. "It would be wise for you to go to bed. Get some sleep."

"I won't sleep tonight. Not after... this." She dared a glance at him – his eyes were still fixed on her.

"Nonetheless, you should try. Goodnight, Branson."

"Goodnight, milady." His voice was low, almost a caress, as she walked away without a backward glance.

She headed into the house, sneaking in through the back door just as Carson was approaching. A quick flight upstairs, along the corridor, and she was safe.

She got into her night things and sat down at her dressing table to brush her hair. Looking at herself in the glass, she could see her cheeks were still flaming red. _Stop it, Sybil, you're being silly._

Once she got into bed, she thought of him out there alone, keeping vigil with her, likely the only two people still awake in the house. Her face burned again when she remembered the feel of his cheek beneath her fingers. The warmth of his touch on her hip, her shoulder. Almost an embrace, but for Carson's timely arrival which had stopped her just in time from... she didn't know what.

As she settled into her pillows, the last thing Sybil saw before she fell asleep was the blue of Branson's eyes.

* * *

A/N -

"amadán" = idiot in Irish Gaelic, per Google Translate.

The title of this story comes, of course, from the note Tom left for Sybil before his failed protest, the note Anna found and which led to his discovery. To me, it was obvious that Sybil and Tom must have spoken again after Carson sent Tom to his cottage to 'stew in his own juice' but before 2.04, when Sybil visits Tom at the garage and talks about 'when you wouldn't promise me' not to stage any more protests. This fic was my attempt to sketch out what that conversation might have been like, with some bonus UST thrown in. ;)

The song Tom was singing out in the woods is called 'Roddy McCorley'. It was written in the 1890s by Ethna Carbery, and it made the eponymous hero a legend of revolutionary Ireland, based on his supposed involvement with the United Irishmen and their rebellion of 1798. It can be heard via youtube.

Thank you to repmetsyrrah who published the cut S/T lines from the season 2 scriptbook on her Tumblr. This was where I found out Tom's cousin's name and something more of the circumstances of his death during the Easter Rising. (If you search her blog for the tag 'missing scene', you will find it.)


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